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Helen and her father were a content lot-traveling and supporting each other through their various travels. But Mexico is a different case altogether. While pitching their tent for the night, they come face to face with a mysterious stranger and things alter dramatically from that point onwards. Who is this stranger? What terrible secrets are waiting to be unfolded? Excerpt: "In the dusk a pack-horse crested a low-lying sand-ridge, put up its head and sniffed, pushed forward eagerly, its nostrils twitching as it turned a little more toward the north, going straight toward the water-hole. The…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Helen and her father were a content lot-traveling and supporting each other through their various travels. But Mexico is a different case altogether. While pitching their tent for the night, they come face to face with a mysterious stranger and things alter dramatically from that point onwards. Who is this stranger? What terrible secrets are waiting to be unfolded? Excerpt: "In the dusk a pack-horse crested a low-lying sand-ridge, put up its head and sniffed, pushed forward eagerly, its nostrils twitching as it turned a little more toward the north, going straight toward the water-hole. The pack was slipping as far to one side as it had listed to the other half an hour ago; in the restraining rope there were a dozen intricate knots where one would have amply sufficed. The horse broke into a trot, blazing its own trail through the mesquite; a parcel slipped; the slack rope grew slacker because of the subsequent readjustment; half a dozen bundles dropped after the first. A voice, thin and irritable, shouted 'Whoa!' and the man in turn was briefly outlined against the pale sky as he scrambled up the ridge. He was a little man and plainly weary; he walked as though his boots hurt him; he carried a wide, new hat in one hand; the skin was peeling from his blistered face. From his other hand trailed a big handkerchief. He was perhaps fifty or sixty. He called 'Whoa!' again, and made what haste he could after his horse."

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Autorenporträt
Jackson Gregory (1882 - 1943) was an American teacher, journalist, and writer. Jackson was born in Salinas, California, the son of Monterey county attorney Durrell Stokes Gregory (1825 - 1889) and Amelia (Hartnell) and was educated at the University of California, Berkeley, earning a B.L. in 1906. Jackson began his career as a newspaper reporter in San Francisco. He later served as a principal at a high school in Truckee, where he met his future wife, Lotus McGlashan. They were wed December 20, 1910 and the couple would have two sons. Jackson then became a journalist, working in Illinois, Texas, and New York. When their first son was born in 1917, the family settled in Auburn, California, where Jackson became a prolific writer of western and detective stories. Fifteen years later the couple moved to Pasadena, where they were divorced. Jackson then moved in with his brother Edward, who was living in Auburn. He died there June 12, 1943, while working on a novel titled The Hermit of Thunder King. Jackson Gregory authored more than 40 fiction novels and a number of short stories. Several of his tales were used as the basis of films released between 1916 and 1944, including The Man from Painted Post (1917).